


The Last Farewell

by blue_aether_19



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Love, Character Death, Gen, Hope, Hurt, Melancholy, Redemption, Regret, a last goodbye, a tiny bit of comfort, boromir is such a great character, idk man tags are confusing, sadness?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:02:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28521327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_aether_19/pseuds/blue_aether_19
Summary: "Boromir’s head hung down, too heavy for him to ever lift up. In his exhaustion he wondered how any king could lift up a head with a crown, how he himself could ever hold up a crown, when he couldn’t hold up his own head, let alone a promise. "Or rather, a retelling of the Departure of Boromir and the moments leading up to it.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Merry Brandybuck & Pippin Took
Kudos: 4





	The Last Farewell

The forest was strangely quiet, no animals scurried atop its underbrush, no birds sang from its heights. There was a man.

“Frodo?”

The man raised his head from the covered ground, greying leaves sticking to his auburn hair, face paled in disbelief. His voice shook, unsure of what had just happened, unsure of what would happen. An already fogged future fogged even more by uncertainty.

“Frodo?"

His voice was stronger now but still plagued by a slight tremble. Calling out to the hobbit, wanting to apologize, to justify, to explain.

_NO_

“No.”

This wasn’t happening. He hadn’t felt the anger overtaking him. The lust, the greed that overwhelmed his senses and ruled his actions. He hadn’t tried to take the ring. The desire he had hid so carefully in the back of his head had not revealed itself. It was merely a thought and he never knew it could be amplified so much.

“What have I done?”

_What had he done?_

“Frodo?!”

Boromir slowly rose to his feet, disoriented by the sudden burst of rage, the uncontrollable anger that had changed so much. His mind was spinning.

“What have I done?”

Disbelief strongly battled against the truth he refused to acknowledge. He had tried to hurt the small defenseless hobbit he had sworn so boldly to protect. He had done the unthinkable. He had broken his promise. Frodo’s look of terror replayed over and over again in his head. He had frightened the hobbit by his persistent words and savage actions. It would be his greatest regret.

_What had he done?_

Boromir let out a strangled sob. Hand over mouth, muffling the sound of his intense remorse. Things had shifted drastically in those few minutes. Frodo had fled and Boromir doubted he would ever see him again. He had ruined the Fellowship and his actions would surely be paid in blood. By his or by others. 

The sounds of battle cries rang through the sleepy forest. Boromir was thrust from his increasingly mournful thoughts to the reality that was in front of him. Orcs. He berated himself for wasting his precious time recounting his past actions when nothing he could do would change them. He sprinted in the direction of the noise, ready to fend off any enemies that tried to attack the Fellowship. Guttural shouts and the clashing of metals alerted him of the right direction. As he approached the scene, he saw the orcs pursuing the two youngest of the fellowship. They were quite nimble but sooner or later the orcs would catch up to them. He increased his pace, he wouldn’t let them die. He couldn’t.

He raised his blade, old but sharp, and attacked.

The orcs were surprised by the attack and through the initial surprise Boromir placed himself in front of the two hobbits. As they retreated back, Boromir killed any orc that dare attack his hobbits. Stabbing, slashing and flipping any enemy that came to close with a warrior’s precision. The hobbits helped him, throwing stones at the orcs and occasionally stabbing one together. The orcs came in swarms and they would soon be overwhelmed.

In an effort to alert the others, he took out the Horn of Gondor, blowing it multiple times in short spurts, killing orcs between each blow. The horn was clear and powerful and echoed through the whole forest but Boromir knew they would be too late.

An arrow pierced his chest. He stumbled, air knocked out of his lungs, pain shortening his breath. He fell to one knee, sweaty hair obscuring his sight. He could see the orcs rapidly approaching, remembered Merry and Pippin, and knew he couldn’t stop. He rose up, swaying from the pain, and recklessly swinging his sword.

He downed a few orcs before he was shot by an even more fatal and deadly arrow. His breath stopped for just a second. He blinked his eyes several times in disbelief and resignation. The whole world slowed to a crawl, the battle cries dimmed to the background. Body fatigued and mind tired, he fell to his knees facing the hobbits. Their faces were frozen in horror, not used to such injury and death. Boromir wanted with all his heart to protect them from any harm, to clutch them safe to his side, to never see those looks on their faces again. But he couldn’t. It wasn’t possible for anyone.

Boromir’s heart filled with emotion. In their eyes, he saw his brother, when he was young and innocent. He ignored the pain, ignored the arrows stuck in his chest, ignored how tired his limbs had become, intent only on protecting the hobbits. He stood up with a determined shout. The world was spinning madly but Boromir persevered. Mustering as much strength he could, he fought off the first orc that came his way. His actions were halting and it was getting harder to move.

The last arrow sealed his fate.

It was sudden as the ones before were, but more deadly than both. His head jerked back by the force and this time that he fell he couldn’t rise. He stayed there, on his knees, head bent over in pain, broken horn in his hands. Vision becoming hazy and hearing gradually fading, he couldn’t catch his breath.

He couldn’t defend the hobbits anymore. Boromir gasped out for them to leave, to retreat and escape, but it was a mouth pronouncing words and words never leaving the mouth. They couldn’t hear him and he realized his efforts were in vain when he saw their hazy shapes moving past him, blurred and unfocused, he heard their shouts full of passion but for so little purpose.

_No, stop!_

_Stay where you are!_

It seemed they were going to protect him but their efforts were quickly combated by the much stronger orcs. Boromir despaired for their fate at that moment, his efforts had been fruitless. He knelt there on the forest floor as the orcs sprinted past, their footsteps pounding against the ground, ringing in his head. The clang of their metal caused a pandemonium of noise and Boromir’s thoughts splintered and lost all order in the chaos.

He heaved heavy and painful sighs and with each one his life slipped away. His vision was going in and out but he could still hear the hobbits over the tumult, their ardent shouts turning quickly to desperate cries for help. Boromir wished he could help but he had passed his limit. Regret flashed across his mind and he desired redemption.

Boromir’s head hung down, too heavy for him to ever lift up. In his exhaustion he wondered how any king could lift up a head with a crown, how he himself could ever hold up a crown, when he couldn’t hold up his own head, let alone a promise?

He could see an orc coming his way, this one was walking at a leisurely pace compared to the others. The orc was recognizable by the white mark that covered his whole face, a hand. He held a crude but strong bow in his hand. The orc stopped before Boromir’s hunched figure. As the orc drew his bow with an arrow notched to kill, Boromir looked up. His head would not hang heavy in the presence of such evil. His body shook with the effort and he swayed in his position but he stayed firm.

_This is how I die._

He was ready to meet the Illuvatar. Boromir had accepted his death. He looked the orc in the eyes and waited for the fatal shot.

But it never came. A brown blur passed over his vision, slashing away the orcs bow. Aragorn, his mind absentmindedly supplied, Aragorn had saved him. Had he saved him from death or had he just prolonged the inevitable? Boromir fell backward, any strength left in his body vanished in that instant. The world around him faded and he was dimly aware of the fight going on near him. He blinked and in a second without him realizing, Aragorn was kneeling in front of him.

“They took the little ones!” Boromir gasped out. He could faintly hear, Aragorn muttering for him to stay still. He lifted his hand to clutch Aragorn’s arm, to impress on him how important this was.

“Frodo. Where is Frodo?” His voice was panicked. His body was filled with such excruciating pain. Aragorn seemed to be inspecting his wounds, little help that would do for he was already bound for death. But Frodo, Frodo wasn’t. He needed to know.

“I let Frodo go,” he heard Aragorn whisper, his voice was muffled in his ears. Letting out a gasp of relief, Boromir told him. His body, getting weaker each heartbeat.

“You did what I could not.” Aragorn searched his face as Boromir continued.

“I tried to take the ring from him.” He breathed out the words, voice filled with regret.

“The ring is beyond our reach now,” Aragorn informed him, his own voice shaking slightly.

“Forgive me, I did not see.” It was getting harder to talk. Boromir longed for any form of confirmation and forgiveness, From someone, anyone before his life slipped off to the Halls of Mandos.

“I have failed you all”

_Forgive me._

“No, Boromir,” Aragorn’s tone was one of sadness and mourning, “No, you fought bravely. You kept you honor.” He moved to try and remove the arrows sticking in Boromir’s body, sucking out his life but Boromir grasped at his gloved hand.

“Leave it, it is over.” His voice faltered. “The world of men will fall and all will come to darkness and my city to ruin.” The future was certain, his city would fall, his brother would die, his people would be gone. Aragorn took his hands in his in a comforting gesture.

“I do not know what strength is in my blood, but I swear to you I will not let the white city fall.” Strongly did he proclaim this and even strongly did he say the words of a truth. “Nor our people fail” Aragorn let go of his hands and placed Boromir’s mighty blade in his open hands.

“Our people”, Boromir whispered, suddenly filled with hope, so different from the seconds before and he would have smiled if he had the strength. How grand would it be to see his people’s glory. To live through it all. He was wrong to doubt Aragorn, oh he had been so wrong. He was the rightful king of Gondor and Boromir would follow him to death.

Boromir’s hands trembled as he clutched his sword against his heart. He took a deep and shaky breath. His time was coming. He looked Aragorn in the eyes. The pain of his wounds, were overwhelmed for a brief second as regret and melancholy took over.

“I would have followed you,” his voice shook, “My brother, my captain, my king.”

Letting out a long sigh, Boromir fell limp in Aragorn’ arms. His life having finally left him.

And so passed the son of Denethor.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hello, thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated. I wrote this fanfic last year, right after I had watched The Fellowship of the Ring and so looking back at it, the details are a little fuzzy, so forgive any mistakes. Also, it's been awhile since I've read the Silmarillion, so some I'm not sure how accurate the two references are, or if Boromir knew of the Illuvatar or the Halls of Mandos. Anyway, I hope you have a lovely day!


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